'Sire, the cross of the Holy Ghost, vacant by the execution of the Duke de Montmorenci, Campmaster of the regiment de Normandie, is not yet filled up.' 'Well?' 'I wish it, if you love me,' said the Countess, starting from the table, and throwing her arms round Louis. 'What--Countess, you with a cross of my first order?' 'Marion de l'Orme got one of St. Sepulchre, from the Cardinal, for her lover Senecterre.' 'And for whom do _you_ wish it?' asked the King, suspiciously. 'For no lover, but a friend who will give me a thousand crowns for it--Raynold Cheyne of the Scottish Guard.' 'The cross worn by a peer and marshal of France, the descendant of four constables, one whose patent dates, like our Scottish League, from Charles the Great, for a private gentleman of our guard? Peste!--well, well, 'tis yours, Clara.' 'Thanks, sire,' said she, kissing him. 'Ha! what noise is that in the cabinet?--see, your dog snarls as if some one--' ''Tis mice, only mice, sire; but here are pen and ink; please to confirm these gifts; I deserve them, since I have been able to anticipate my enemy, the Cardinal.' The King confirmed them by a line or two, which he handed to the Countess, saying, 'There is no man in all the Scottish Guard, I value more than Raynold Cheyne, or would trust more--' 'With anything, but a pretty girl, sire.' 'True, Madame de Bouillon has quite spoiled him; but favours to our soldiers are not thrown away at present; we have this day decided on the war with Lorraine.' Through a chink in the old cabinet, I could perceive the Countess start with visible emotion at these words, and as she gave a furtive glance towards a part of the arras, I thought that a fair face, and a tress of golden hair were visible for a moment, as if some one was listening. 'Would not your Majesty rather send an envoy to the Duke, and seek to arbitrate this matter?' 'Countess, Richelieu means to send two envoys.' 'He does, sire!' 'Yes--the Cardinal Duke de Lavalette, and your friend the Camp-Marechal Hepburn.' 'How--' 'With fifty thousand men.' 'Alas! my poor native province!' 'Such is our resolve.' 'And which way do they march?' 'By the road direct for the frontier, and Elsace Zaberne.' Another glance, and most palpable nod of intelligence were exchanged between the Countess and the eavesdropper, whom I suspected to be her attendant. 'If this Duke of Lorraine had four heads, by the bones of St. Louis, I would spike them all on the gate of St. Marcel, beside that of the traitor Guy de Beaumanoir!' 'Before that happens, I fear me, that the little Dauphin will have been hailed as Louis XIV.' 'Indeed, Countess!' said the King, with a sardonic grimace. 'Yes, sire, and you will be on your way to St. Denis, borne by the twenty-four Scots of the Garde du Corps.'